


Clamour and Heat

by moonblossom



Series: Ink and Honour [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Clothing Porn, Fluff, Hand Job, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M, Noisy Sex, Oral Sex, Regency, Rimming, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 04:26:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Now that Sherlock's got John back in his childhood bedroom, he's keen to make John scream. Sometimes things refuse to turn out quite the way they are planned.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clamour and Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to hbbo for reading this one over and making more invaluable vocabulary suggestions and Sandy for pointing out some stuff after the fact.

The wedding ceremony was over. Everyone had danced late into the night and eaten far too much. The happy couple had retired to a small cottage at the back of the Holmes property, and eventually everyone else had drifted off. Most had taken up rooms at a small inn nearby. Mrs. Hudson had retired early, taking a carriage back to London, a fact for which Sherlock was inexplicably grateful. The idea of her being too far from Baker Street set his nerves on edge.

John and Sherlock had returned to Sherlock's childhood quarters, and were now comfortably ensconced on the settee in his drawing room. John had secreted away several cups of syllabub which they were now consuming in contented languor.

John leant against Sherlock, resting his head on his lover's shoulder. His weight was comforting and Sherlock pressed his cheek against the top of John's head.

"This was very kind of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock huffed, though he was pleased that John felt that way. "It was nothing. The manor is not mine. And I suspect Mycroft was keen to agree, because now he has the misguided notion that I owe him a favour."

"Mmm." John's murmur was amused and non-committal. His mouth found Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock all but lost his train of thought. John's lips were soft and warm, brushing gently against his hairline in a manner that drove Sherlock to distraction. His heart-rate increased, and he was certain John could feel it there, the soft divot where the skin was so thin and the blood so close to the surface. A soft moan escaped Sherlock's throat as John's lips continued their exploration of his temple, his cheekbone, and the corner of his jaw.

"I should hope there are no traces of syllabub on your mouth." Sherlock grumbled good-naturedly. John giggled, his breath tickling Sherlock's skin. 

"Perhaps you should turn your stubborn head and kiss me properly then, if only to find out."

Sherlock had to agree that this was a fantastic idea. He shifted his weight on the settee, turning so he was facing John, and cupped his face lightly with both hands. He pulled John forward, angling his head just enough that their lips met smoothly. Eagerly, John parted his lips, allowing Sherlock's tongue in. He could still taste the faint hint of lemons and cream on John, and he grinned against John's mouth.

John's hands settled at Sherlock's waist, his thumbs slipping up under the thick silk waistcoat and brushing Sherlock's skin through his shirt. The contact was delicate and frustrating, and Sherlock groaned impatiently without breaking the kiss. Playfully, John traced the tip of Sherlock's tongue with his own. Suddenly Sherlock was immensely grateful that they were already sitting, as his knees slowly turned to jelly.

Though the contact between them was still relatively chaste, Sherlock could already feel himself hardening in his breeches. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to alleviate the pressure. John, however, took it as an invitation to move in closer. He spread his legs in a most vulgar fashion and clambered up, straddling Sherlock with his thighs. Sherlock had to tilt his head upwards slightly to kiss John now, which was unusual and oddly exciting.

His hands trailed down the length of John's back, fingers running smoothly over the satin back of his waistcoat. They settled on the firm, rounded mounds of John's arse, filling his inexpressibles so pleasingly. John moaned softly and Sherlock swallowed the sound. Gripping John tightly, Sherlock pulled his hips forward, closing the gap between their bodies. John, too, was beginning to stir, and the motion caused their clothed cocks to rub together in a way that delighted Sherlock.

He rocked his hips upwards, repeating the motion, and felt John tremble slightly. The motion broke the kiss and Sherlock pulled back slightly, to study John's face. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes wide and excited. Sherlock suspected he must look much the same, and grinned.

"Do you recall, John, the first time we were in this room?"

John looked a tad perplexed by the digression, but nodded. "After your brother's ball. Where all your infernal relatives kept dragging me away from your company. All I wanted was to be able to dance with you." He sighed wistfully. Sherlock released his hold on John's rear end and reached up to stroke his cheek soothingly.

"You were not alone in that wish, I assure you. I spent most of the night seething at everyone. When I was not imagining you, tangled up in your borrowed nightshirt in my bed, that is. I wanted to join you in that bed and make you scream. To scandalise everyone in the household."

At his confession, John swallowed thickly. The bobbing motion of his Adam's apple was mesmerising, and Sherlock placed a kiss just above his neck-cloth, before bringing his hand down to the knot. He raised his brow and John nodded in invitation.

Sherlock made quick work of untying the thin silk scarf and groaned as John's shirt collar fell open, exposing the pale golden vee of flesh at his throat. Impulsively, he leant forward again and licked a broad stripe there, encompassing all the exposed flesh from the open collar to John's chin, now faintly grazed with stubble. He would have to shave tomorrow morning, to be presentable for company, but for the moment Sherlock relished in the texture.

Reflexively, John bucked against him, causing their trapped erections to rub together most pleasingly yet again. Sherlock dropped the cloth on the floor and brought his hand back to rest on John's behind.

"Perhaps..." John panted, clearly eager and driven to distraction. "We should move to your bed?"

"Oh?" Sherlock murmured, proud that he was still somewhat in control of his faculties. "Have you decided to spend the night, then? I was not aware I had invited you."

John smacked him playfully, more a caress across the chest than anything. "Nobody will ever have any idea, as long as we are careful tomorrow."

Laughing, Sherlock kissed a short trail from John's cheekbone to his earlobe.

"I suspect they are all anticipating it, whether we do it or not. We may as well take advantage of the opportunity. Mycroft has secrets enough in his own wardrobe that I could ruin him for life were I so inclined, and the staff here has always been at the height of discretion. I suppose I may as well take you to bed, then."

Eagerly, John clambered up off Sherlock's lap. Sherlock took a moment to appreciate the outline of John's erection, made so prominent by the snug front of his breeches. Already, there was a dark spot at the head of his prick, fluid pooling there and discolouring the beige silk. The sight made Sherlock's mouth water.

Sherlock was distracted by John's hand, held elegantly out to him, as though inviting him to dance. Smirking, he took it and permitted John to lead him into the bedchamber. They had barely entered the room when John, with his uncanny ability to keep Sherlock on his toes, kicked the door shut and crowded Sherlock against the wall. At some point the balance between them had shifted, and Sherlock felt quite at a loss. For once in his life, he permitted himself to luxuriate in that sensation, to let John take the lead fully.

John's kisses were more fierce now, more hungry. He forced his tongue into Sherlock's mouth and explored with abandon, his slight frame somehow imposing enough to keep Sherlock braced against the wall. Deftly, John undid the buttons on the rich purple silk of Sherlock's waistcoat and pushed it off his shoulders in one fluid motion. He yanked at the knot on Sherlock's neck-cloth and pulled it down with enough force that Sherlock suspected there would be a mark tomorrow. Sherlock hissed, desire and anticipation and just this side of discomfort, and John groaned eagerly into his mouth.

At a loss for what to do, Sherlock's hands found their way back to the glorious curve of John's arse. He cupped it tightly, thumbs running just under the muscle, where it met the tops of his thighs and John shivered against him. Clumsily, his hands found their way around John's hips, to the buttons on the front placket of his breeches. Sherlock tried to undo them but it was as if all his cleverness had escaped him.

A teasing grin spread across his face, John pulled back and swatted Sherlock's hands out of the way.

"Not yet. I should quite like to take care of you first." His voice was rough and deep with arousal, and something about his manner of speech sent a tremor down Sherlock's spine and straight to the base of his penis. As his prick hardened, the rest of Sherlock’s body went soft and pliant, permitting John to take what he clearly needed.

John required no further invitation, and hastily began undoing the front of Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock, in his constant need to be at the forefront of fashion, had invested in a shirt that had buttons down the entire front, rather than slipping over his head, and never had he been more grateful for his indulgences. As John prised open each button, he bent slightly, fingers tracing the musculature of Sherlock's chest and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. When he exposed Sherlock's nipples, no doubt already hard and dark, he trailed his tongue around each one, almost mockingly, never quite making contact with the sensitive nubs of flesh. Sherlock whimpered inelegantly and threw his head back.

Eventually, John made his way to the waistband of Sherlock's breeches. He dropped to his knees and tugged the hem of Sherlock's shirt out of his bottoms. Sherlock must have looked quite a sight, clothing in disarray, panting and flushed against the silk-draped walls of his childhood bedroom. And yet, when John looked up at him, the expression on his face was one of pure adulation.

He rubbed his face against the front of Sherlock's breeches, a gesture that was beautiful in its obscenity, and Sherlock bit his lip. He leant more firmly against the wall to brace himself as John's clever fingers found their way to the edge of the placket on the front of his bottoms. His fingers insinuated their way between the seams, finding bare skin there, as Sherlock had foregone drawers due to the fact that they often ruined the lines of his inexpressibles. A slow, predatory grin crept across John's face, as though he were confirming a theory and inordinately pleased by the results.

"You are a terror, Sherlock Holmes. Look at the state you have got me into." John smirked up at Sherlock, eyes sparkling through the fringe of his lashes and somehow still in control despite being on his knees.

Sherlock no longer trusted his voice not to betray him, so he merely gulped and nodded. John's fingers continued to stroke him teasingly, barely able to reach the coarse, dark hairs around the base of his erection. Another mortifying whimper escaped Sherlock's lips and John must have taken pity on him, for he undid the buttons at his front placket and knees, and yanked the breeches down to his ankles in one smooth motion. He made quick work of Sherlock's boots and Sherlock obligingly lifted one foot and then the other as John pulled them off, and threw them into a corner along with his bottoms.

Standing there in his unbuttoned shirt and his stockinged feet, Sherlock felt far more lewd than he would have if he were properly naked. Especially with John still virtually fully dressed, with only his neck-cloth missing. Bright points of shame and arousal burnt at his cheeks and crept down his chest, and yet John continued to gaze worshipfully at him.

"John, I... I--" Sherlock stammered, and cursed inwardly for it. Overwhelmed, he stared pointedly at the bed, and blessedly John seemed to understand. He rose up off the floor in one smooth motion and stepped towards the narrow bed. Sherlock let his shirt fall from his shoulders and followed John eagerly, not caring how absurd he looked wearing naught but stockings, with his cock bobbing in front of him. He sat on the bed and shifted towards the middle, to make room for John. He slipped out of his stockings, feeling somewhat less ridiculous now that he was properly disrobed.

Sherlock looked up at John, eagerly awaiting for him to strip down too, but John merely grinned again. He did consent to slip out of his overcoat and waistcoat and drape them carefully over a chair, but made no move to pull his shirt over his head or remove his breeches. Instead, he loomed over Sherlock, who had no choice but to lean back onto the coverlet. He fully anticipated John would strip down at any moment now and clamber over him, but yet again John proved to be far more clever and fascinating than he would have let anyone believe.

He bent down and kissed Sherlock again, a hungry sloppy mess of a kiss that drove yet another spike of lust through Sherlock's abdomen. It was a heady thing, to feel so desperately wanted. John kissed and nibbled his way down over Sherlock's lower lip, his chin, his throat, and to his collarbone. His strong, slightly roughened hands traced broad strokes across Sherlock's torso and down towards his hips. Sherlock canted them upwards eagerly, expecting John to finally touch his prick, which was engorged and red, and beginning to leak earnestly now.

Instead, John chose to be frustratingly unpredictable once more and wrapped his hands tightly around Sherlock's bare thighs. His hands were cool to Sherlock's feverish skin, which added yet another dimension to the frenzy of sensation building within him. Sherlock tossed his head against the bed linens and whined, and John, damn him to hell, merely laughed.

Sherlock was caught off-guard as John yanked him forcefully forwards, towards the edge of the thin mattress. His bare hips now hung in the air like those of some vulgar harlot, and John was forcing his legs wide open. Scrabbling to regain some semblance of control, he threw his calves over John's shoulders for support, and John stroked his hip encouragingly with one thumb. Something about John's forceful, demanding handling had wrung Sherlock out like a limp, lust-addled rag. Never had he felt so wanted - no, so _needed_ \- in all his years.

Slowly, John sank to his knees at the edge of the mattress, and Sherlock could feel the heat of his gaze on his own engorged genitals. This was certainly not the first time they had engaged in such relations, and yet something about the situation seemed far more intimate than anything they had done to date. Perhaps the surroundings of Sherlock's childhood sanctum were heightening his sense of succumbing to John’s power.

His thoughts were jumbled, but he was brought abruptly back down to earth as John ran his tongue - broad and hot and wet - along the underside of Sherlock's cock and then huffed a breath of cool air across the damp skin. Sherlock would have jumped right off the bed had his legs not been braced against John's shoulders.

John ran the very tip of his tongue, sharp and narrow, along the head of Sherlock's erection, bulbous and glistening now that the prepuce had fully retracted. With the same light, teasing pressure, he traced the thick, pulsing veins, up and down the length of Sherlock's shaft, until Sherlock had to grip the sheets between his fingers to prevent himself from grabbing John and forcing his way into his mouth. 

Benevolently, John parted his lips and took Sherlock into the warm depths of his mouth and Sherlock bit back a moan. John pursed his mouth tightly around the head of Sherlock's prick and slid downwards. As he reached the base, Sherlock raised his head off the mattress and looked down. It was a sight to behold; John's cheek was obscenely distended, the bulbous crown of Sherlock's erection clearly visible. Tiny, uncontrolled movements shivered through Sherlock's hips as he sought out a depth and tightness John was not yet willing to give.

John braced one hand flat against Sherlock's abdomen, pinning him neatly in place. The other, he wrapped tightly around the base of Sherlock's cock, fingers spreading the pooling saliva there. Once his hand was slick, he began to stroke, hand coming up to meet lips again and again. Sherlock gasped, the muscles in his thighs quivering against John's shoulders.

Just as the tension began to build tightly in his bollocks, John would slow his tempo and release the pressure around the base, bringing his lips back up to the corona of Sherlock's cock. He was crafty and diabolical, keeping Sherlock balanced on the precipice like this for what felt to be an interminable length.

Once, twice, John would swallow Sherlock to the root and Sherlock would buck, feeling himself hitting the back of John's throat, feeling John's nose tickling his belly. Again, though, the moment Sherlock felt as though he was losing control, John would relent, as though he could read the impending orgasm in Sherlock's body.

"Jhn... John..." Sherlock gasped out, his voice harsh and ragged. "Please..."

John pulled off of Sherlock's prick with a sloppy, unwholesome _pop_. "I should do this more frequently. I quite like the sound of you pleading."

A strangled, inarticulate noise escaped Sherlock's throat and he let his head fall onto the bed again. His hair must have been a horror - he could feel his curls clinging to his damp neck, and the way he was thrashing about was no doubt making the situation worse. John, infuriatingly, still appeared reasonably calm and tidy and in control of his faculties.

As if reading his mind, John murmured gently. "You are a beautiful wreck, Sherlock. Look at you, abandoning all sense of decorum. It makes me weak."

"And yet you are still refusing to do as I ask." Sherlock managed to spit out, unreasonably proud of himself for such a simple sentence.

"Where is the surprise in doing as you ask?" John smirked before engulfing his prick yet again, with no forewarning. Sherlock yelped sharply and bucked upwards again, and John pulled back. However, instead of admonishing Sherlock, he merely took one tender, swollen testicle into his mouth and sucked gently. The feeling was one Sherlock had never experienced before, and he was nearly overcome. John's tongue was gentle and probing, tracing the sac and pulling on the skin with his lips. Carefully, he let one side of Sherlock's scrotum slide out of his mouth before swallowing the other. 

Every puff of air as John exhaled was a soothing salve against Sherlock's blood-hot and saliva-dampened skin.

As John fixed his attention in such a tender and intimate area, his hand kept a steady but maddeningly slow pace, stroking Sherlock's shaft and running his thumb repeatedly over the head. This continued for a while, Sherlock trembling and sweating and nearly convulsing with the need for release. John, however, was relentless.

Eventually, he pulled his mouth away from Sherlock's genitals entirely, leaving him feeling strangely bereft. Methodically, John placed a symmetrical arrangement of lurid, wet kisses along the inner creases where Sherlock's thighs met his body. First just to the right of his scrotum, and then just to the left. He alternated, back and forth, as he moved down to the flat expanse of skin behind Sherlock's bollocks, and placed another kiss there, right in the centre of his perineum. Sherlock shivered.

John kept descending, and abruptly, despite his lack of faculties, Sherlock realised exactly what his intentions were, and pulled his head up in alarm.

"Oh no, John. I should hope you are not doing what I suspect you are."

"Hmm?" John murmured, a teasing interrogative. "And what might that be?"

Shame burnt through Sherlock. He could not utter it aloud. It was an alarming feeling, being unable to express an idea in his head. He was so used to blurting out every thought. "Your mouth. Putting it where I think you intend to put it."

"Do you wish me to stop?" John rested his cheek against Sherlock's thigh, kissing it lightly.

Sherlock paused. So far, everything John had done to him - no, _for_ him - had been wonderful. He had read about the practice that John was about to engage in, and at the time a flare of lustful curiosity had run through him. It was so intimate, and so perverse. He stared down at John, waiting so patiently for Sherlock to make up his mind.

Eventually, the surge of energy running through his groin won out over the logical part of his brain that insisted this was dirty and deviant, and he nodded at John.

It was as though a floodgate had opened somewhere. Consent given, John set to his task with abandon. He began by swirling his tongue in concentric circles, each one increasingly close to his target. With each circle, Sherlock heard himself letting out a sharp, keening moan, increasing in both pitch and volume. He turned his head and muffled himself in the coverlet, writhing as John's unerring tongue found its mark.

Wrapping one hand firmly around Sherlock's cock and stroking quicker now, John pressed the tip of his tongue against Sherlock's puckered hole. For a moment, it felt strange and intrusive, and Sherlock could feel his body quailing against it. It was not unlike the first moment of John breaching him with his cock though, and soon his body relaxed. He could feel John's tongue, swirling just inside the rim of his muscle.

As John nipped and licked and lavished attention upon Sherlock's hole, his other hand quickened, and Sherlock knew there would be no more teasing, no more drawing out. His breath grew increasingly ragged and his heart pounded furiously in his ears as his climax built. John had raised him to a dizzying peak, the subsequent coming down would be glorious and overwhelming. Every nerve, every fibre of Sherlock's being was humming with unspent energy, and there were bright sparks of light blooming behind his eyelids.

He felt his bollocks grow tight and close, and just at that moment John chose to thrust the full length of his tongue as deep into Sherlock's body as it would reach. It was as though John was licking the very core of Sherlock’s being. The sparks behind his eyes grew into great conflagrations and his body pulled taut as a bowstring. He was vaguely aware of the animalistic grunts and shouts he was making as his cock twitched violently. Ribbons of come splattered his stomach, his chest, and, most memorably, his cheek.

As his muscles unclenched, he tumbled back down onto the bed and reached up to wipe his face clean. His breath was still coming in ragged gasps and groans, and for a moment it felt as though the room were spinning. He lay there, disorientated, while his heart slowed and steadied.

When he finally regained control of his faculties, Sherlock raised himself off the mattress and propped himself up on his elbows. In contrast to his earlier appearance, John was flushed and soft and drowsy, his hair standing up comically at the back of his head. His eyes were heavy and lidded and a knowing smile played about his lips. He looked far too smug.

"John, come up here and allow me to reciprocate."

"There is no need, Sherlock, I assure you." He laughed softly, and Sherlock laughed too, in spite of himself. He sat up and looked down at John properly, from the flushed tops of his cheeks to his legs, folded awkwardly beneath him. Sherlock focused on the front of his breeches, unbuttoned and covered in spunk, his penis resting soft and flaccid against the fabric. Sherlock laughed again at John's unrepentant shrug.

"I grew impatient. The sight of you, Sherlock, spread open so wantonly and writhing about against my tongue, it grew to be too much. Especially when you started shouting."

"I did make rather a lot of noise. That was unexpected."

"You did." John giggled infectiously, rubbing his delicious stubble against the soft skin of Sherlock's thigh. "If the household staff did not suspect us before, they most certainly will now."

Half-heartedly, Sherlock flapped a hand in John's direction.

"I was quite certain that I told you _I_ wanted to make _you_ scream, John. Not the other way around."

"Oh, but this was satisfactory, was it not?"

Sherlock had no choice but to concede that point and nodded, rolling his eyes. "You are forever full of surprises, John Watson."

Carefully, John stood and stepped out of his now-ruined breeches and pulled his shirt off, leaving them in a pile on the floor. He crawled into bed beside Sherlock, the both of them still completely, scandalously naked. The vast expanse of skin contact between them was soothing. Sherlock, without intending to, snuggled up against John's chest. John wrapped one arm around his shoulders, pulling him in closer.

"Good thing that I am, too. Could not bear to have you getting bored on me."

Sherlock looked up, shocked. "Bored of you, John? Never." He kissed the grin that spread across John’s lips and blew out the lamp beside the bed before pulling the linens up to cover them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Let’s play another round of spot-the-anachronism XD  
> Sherlock’s shirtfront would very likely not have had buttons all down it, as shirts like that did not exist yet. However, Brinanners is drawing me some absolutely beautiful fanart based on this [amazing, ridiculous novel cover](http://thepriceoftemptation.com/), and I wanted to work the scene into the fic.


End file.
